Cartwheeling in Thunderstorms by Katherine Rundell

padlock to her chest. “You broke my lock!”
    â€œBecause—there—was—no—key.” Mrs. Browne spoke as if Will were deaf, or an unusually stupid toddler.
    And Will, physically shaking, unable to see anything but mist and madness, shouted, high and wild, “ I had the key! I had the key! It was mine ! From my mother—my mother—oh, my mama, Mum, Dad, Papa—” and Will choked, fell silent, finding that there were no words that matched the feeling of loss , or lost . Loss is a vacuum, in which no living word can exist.

O N THE DAY OF HER departure, Will’s resolution broke. Having sworn that, for the captain’s sake, she would go quietly, it felt suddenly impossible. She ran into the bush and hid—from the one adult’s silky triumph and the other’s helpless regret.
    Mrs. Browne, stalking down from the house in a trim khaki dress, saw Will’s legs hanging from the baobab tree. She set her jaw. She would be glad to see the back of those legs.
    â€œWill!”
    Will jumped. “Dammit,” she muttered under her breath. False as “dammit.” But aloud she said, “Yes, ma’am?”
    â€œWill, we’ve been looking everywhere for you! Come down! It’s nearly time to go.”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Browne, ma’am,” said Will. Time-to-go, said the beat of her heart. She dropped to the ground. Time-to-go.
    â€œ Cynthia , Will. I asked you to call me Cynthia.” Cynthia Browne bared her teeth in a smile. “Not that it matters now.” Then she looked more closely at Will, something she usually tried to avoid. “Are you planning to wear that on the plane?”
    â€œJa.”
    â€œShorts? You’re going to wear filthy shorts and farm boots on an airplane?”
    â€œThis is what I’ve got.”
    â€œAnd whose fault is that?” Mrs. Browne gave up the effort of her patient face. “What was I saying? You’ve made me forget what I was going to say. . . . Oh, yes. The school has arranged for someone nice to pick you up from the airport. I’ve put your passport by your box. And”—Mrs. Browne made gulping noise, as if to swallow disgust—“Lazarus has put a stem of bananas out for you. They won’t let you take them on board, but the man simply won’t believe me that they’ll feed you properly.”
    â€œOh,” said Will. And, “Yes, ma’am.”
    â€œSo . . . this is good-bye, then, Will.” Cynthia bent down and tried to embrace her. Will stiffened her shoulders, and she locked her hands behind her back.
    Cynthia let out a little hiss of annoyance, and released her. “I must say I’m disappointed by your attitude, Will. Look, I’m sorry if you’re not happy with the situation. . . .”
    Will didn’t believe it. She stared at her feet.
    â€œWill, these changes haven’t been easy for anyone. Life”—Cynthia’s voice became shrill—“isn’t easy.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Captain Browne said the same thing when he called Will to say good-bye.
    â€œLife isn’t all mangoes and milk tarts, Will.”
    He had aged in the past months; his thin, mobile face had become gaunt. He was dressed in new trousers, new shoes—brown brogues, not his old cowhide—and he crossed and uncrossed his legs, rubbed his thighs, unable to settle.
    â€œSo it’s good-bye, is it, little Cartwheel?” he said.
    Perhaps the captain saw something in the expression on Will’s face at that moment, because he sighed deeply, which would not have been so bad, Will thought, except Captain Browne did not sigh. He would have said it was “dramatic and indulgent, girl.”
    â€œDon’t you worry about me, my girl. You look after you, and I’ll look after me, ja ?”
    Or perhaps it was the way she leaned toward him, one hand unconsciously held out,